The Hound's Son
by MrsRasputin
Summary: Grendle is alone. His family vanished four years ago, it is seven years since The Hound's Reward but then disaster... now he is searching for them, killing people for money. There are no leads, no information. Will he find the Hound? Is Sansa dead? Can he talk or trick his way out of this or will Grendle never find his family? Read on...
1. Chapter 1

(The original characters are the property of the author, GRR Martin. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended . All rights reserved.)

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The cat was draped across the top of the wall enjoying the heat that baked the yellow bricks. It could have been a statue carved out of obsidian. The only part that moved was the steady flick, flick as it moved the tip of its long tail. The movement caught Grendle's eye as he scanned the market place. He was standing in the shadow between two buildings; the ancient musky huddle of bad city planning that built one shop almost on top of another. People bustled through the alley ways not glancing into the alcoves or recesses. It was easy to move around unseen. Grendle had been waiting, keeping as still as the cat, but not as comfortable. His body ached from the unnatural stillness he had to adopt. He was longing to stretch but he couldn't give away his position here, not after he had waited from when the empty moon was bright in the sky until now.

Early morning, people selling spiced bread and tea, the smell of cattle shit sweltering in the burning heat. The sun was hardly above the city walls but already sweat was sticking Grendle's thin robe to his back. He sighed and shifted position. His eyes unfocused from the yellow wall opposite and he let his mind flick back to the memory of woodlands with mist rising above the bright green oaks, the freezing coldness of a stream, the smell of a freshly ploughed field, the taste of chilled blackberries picked from a hedgerow. Grimacing, he shook the images from his thoughts and stared at the cat. The damn thing was staring at him with pale eyes. It seemed amused. I would laugh too, he thought, at a stupid man standing in a gloomy alcove instead of sitting in the sunshine.

Then he saw him, his target. The man was middle aged, with a fat belly that pushed out his rose-pink robe. A rich man wearing expensive fabrics and gold bracelets. He was meandering along the walkway with one of his minders holding a parasol above his balding head. Grendle didn't want to know what this man had done to offend his employer; it was none of his business. His job was to kill him; that was all, not ponder why. Leave that to philosophers not hired assassins. Grendle couldn't help a smirk lifting his lips at the corners because assassin sounded quite glamorous, hired murderer was more accurate. Thug perhaps. Villain, rogue, criminal. Whatever word used to describe it, it all boiled down to taking a life. Grendle was very good at killing people and when he had found himself alone in the world he had the skills he possessed to survive. He had tried to work in an inn in Volantis pulling ale and serving food but he couldn't stand being told what to do by ignorant fools. His heart was broken and he found he wanted to beat anyone who bad mouthed the Stark's, it was getting him into trouble, pounding men who laughed at Ned Stark's fate or mentioned Rob Stark's body wearing a wolf head. As he hit them he would think of Sansa's kind face and Grendle would tell himself he did this for her honour but hells, it got him into a pit of shit having to run from villages and leave cities where he was wanted by guards and destined to be thrown into a cell or worse. So here he was, pushed East all the way to Qarth, making money by settling debts for people, deciding who lived with a flick of his knife in the street. Grendle knew where to strike so his thin blade would slip in so gently the victim wouldn't even notice for a few moments; time enough for him to slip away and collect his bag of coin, live another day. Another day alone, without his family. It had been four years since he last saw them and each day was painful but he had no way to find them, all the Gods knew he had tried, he had wandered through the free cities and across seas trying to find any information but it was like an evil magic, they had vanished completely.

Grendle had spent his nineteenth birthday in Braavos, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of dark rum. The sweet liquid had burnt away his worries until he only cared about the bottom of the glass and how pleased he was to see it each time he swigged down the brown syrupy liquor. He wasn't even sure when his birthday was, he just picked a date in the summer months and decided to celebrate. Alone. The next morning he had woken up beneath the table, a small street kid rifling through his pockets. Grendle had growled at him and pulled himself up, shaking the rum from his mind. Then he went to get a job to pay his fare to another place, any place. Assassins in Braavos were members of some elite, secretive order and Grendle's grief was too raw to settle anywhere, he didn't want to join anything. He just wanted to keep moving, keep searching. He loaded ships for a week to earn his fare. Hefting the sacks onto his shoulders, the pain in his muscles was pure; it emptied his mind of all the guilt he felt: he should have protected them, somehow, saved them…but save them from what or who? So many questions and no answers. With his money he got on the first ship and went to another city, then another ship, another journey, more jobs, men to kill, another ship and then here he was; in this strange walled city. Grendle hated Qarth but there were plenty of jobs here for a man who was handy with a knife, a skinny, quick man who could talk his way into any place and deliver a killing blow with a certain elegance. The Hound trained me well, he thought, there is a time to wait and a time to kill, although at the moment, any hour of the day or night is the right time to kill. No women though and definitely no children. Grendle had a code of sorts. He would only kill men.

Grendle watched the portly man in pink stop to look at a table of peaches. The sight of the round orange fruits in baskets made Grendle shiver and he broke his first rule and began to dwell on the past. He thought of the last thing Sandor had said to him in Myr: 'We will be back soon, keep the fire in you little sod.' Then he had grinned at him and picked up Brandon. He walked out of the house away from Grendle. Brandon had waved at him. He was three years old, still a bit of baby fat around his face. He would be seven now. Sansa had kissed Grendle, muttering something about bringing peaches back from the market, and then she had picked up her scarf and wrapped it around her neck. The scarf had been green. She was heavy with child. What happened next? Grendle had no idea. They hadn't returned that night. He had kept the fire burning and fallen asleep. The following morning he began to really worry. Where were they? He had searched every building and tree in Myr, no one had known anything. No one said anything anyway. They had lived there, happily and peacefully for three years after leaving the Quiet Isle, shunning the wars that were happening, the rumours of dragons and ice men, they had made a life there. But after they disappeared all their neighbours acted like they had never existed. Grendle had been alone, a fifteen year old boy that had to fall into instant, cruel manhood. His adopted family were gone. All he could do was search for them. Years of searching. Try not to imagine they had done it on purpose, that they had abandoned him. Or that they were dead. Grendle felt childish tears fill his eyes and he rubbed his fists hard into his sockets. Shaking his mouse coloured hair out of his eyes he focused back onto the target in the street, working out the best place to strike him to end his life.

Sansa would be so ashamed of me he thought, he imagined her voice speaking sternly to him, her bright blue eyes full of sympathetic tears. He missed her so much, he missed all of them. _Damn it! I can't think about them, not now._ Grendle gripped his dagger in the long sleeve of his robe and slipped into the bright street, immediately jostled by people and their packages. He moved behind the fat man, noted his bodyguards: three. They were eyeing up the ladies behind the stalls, their leather covered shoulders relaxed and carefree. None of them were on guard, it would be an easy task to kill this plumped up parrot of a man. Grendle moved silently, like the sly fox he was. As he slipped behind one guard and merged into the shadows cast by the canopies he disappeared from view for a second, them reappeared behind the pink shoulder of the rich man.

The black cat on the yellow bricks got up and stretched sinuously. Then it jumped down from the wall and trotted away. If someone was watching the scene unfold they would have been sure it was following the young man who was swiftly running up a darkened alley, away from the commotion in the bright sunlight where a man lay dead on the floor and women screamed amongst the stalls of fruit.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was cramped and only consisted of a bench in one corner to sleep on and a chair. There was a diamond shaped window high up on the wall. It let in a little light but not enough to read by so Grendle always lit a lamp. The oil gave off a greasy smell and the smoke would gutter and twist towards the already darkened ceiling.

Although it was midday, and outside in the streets the heat was shimmering, in the room it was always chilled. It was a welcome respite from the blaze of the sun. The relentless yellow ball seemed much closer to the land here. In Westeros the sun had been in its proper place, far up in the sky, keeping out of people's business. In Qarth it dominated each waking hour, forcing Grendle to squint and constantly long for a cold breeze.

Sitting on the wooden chair he reached forward and pulled each boot off his hot, tired feet. He curled his toes and tried to relax. He reached into the pocket of his tunic and found a flask. He slowly pulled the cork from the top and put it to his mouth. He paused for long moments, his green eyes staring at the empty wall opposite him, before he took a second pull. His expressive face grimaced as the liquid trickled down his throat. The second drink went down easier and his shoulders relaxed and he slumped down the chair. Always he kept his eyes on the white washed wall; he tried hard to keep memories from surfacing in his mind, thinking instead of men he had killed. The moment life had left their bodies. Reflecting on the techniques he had used, the near misses, Grendle closed his eyes. It looked as if he had fallen asleep but his mind was still racing. He was forcing himself to rest a while before he thought about what to do next. He needed to go and collect his payment. Find out if there was another job for him to do in this wretched city full of two-faced people.

His long fingers twitched on his thigh. Almost absentmindedly his hand reached up and pulled something from his left top pocket, above his heart. It was small enough to hold in his fist. He held it like that, clenched over his ribs. Eventually he held his hand open, uncurling his fingers very gently like a water lily. Grendle looked down at the piece of soft leather. Very carefully he smoothed it flat so he could study the map and the animals that decorated the edges. He let one finger rest on a grey wolf, then on an owl. He shuddered as he traced the map from Qarth, west all the way to Winterfell. His other hand lifted the flask to his lips again, draining the last of the alcohol, his eyes never leaving the tiny stitched castle that represented the family seat of the Stark's.

Grendle felt the familiar wave of darkness race up his body, the familiar tug that told him to take Sansa's knife out of his pocket and cut his own throat. The knife the Hound had given him to take with to Harrenhal, the one he had used to show her the Hound was still alive. All those years ago. Grendle put his hand around his neck, beneath his chin. Felt the pulse throb beneath his skin. Put an end to it, in this silent room. As always he fought the urge, fought it with his reserves of optimism, his cherished piece of hope; fought it with memories of the Hound's voice telling him, 'not to be so bloody stupid, you daft bugger.' Yet this time, after yet another soulless murder, Grendle felt the last ember of his hope extinguish. He decided to kill himself. The decision felt pure, he felt the weight of his search leave his tired body. He stood up. It felt right to die standing up, like a man.

The knife, so small and sharp, felt heavy in his palm. Grendle pressed the leather map to his lips and held it against his cheek. He realised he was crying, silent fat tears soaked his hand. He raised the knife in his other hand and pressed against the artery, pressed hard with the flat of the blade. He stood like that for a long time. At least, it felt like a long time, in reality it was a couple of minutes. Each second was a year, a month. His life played out in snatches of anguished memories: Sansa singing in the bedroom as she brushed her long, red hair. The Hound sat in the sunshine making arrows as Brandon played with the fletches. Teaching the baby to talk and ducking as Sansa tired to smack his ear when she realised he was teaching him a swear word. Brandon half asleep in his arms, rocked and lulled by Grendle's warble attempt at a lullaby. The last memory was too much; the pain in his heart was sharp like a sword. Grendle turned the cutting edge towards his skin and took a deep breath.

'We will be together again,' he said.

It was only a second. That was all it took to save his life. A second of time and the insistent and strident miaow of a cat as it forced the door open and jumped onto the chair next to him. The same black cat that had watched him in the marketplace.

Grendle stared at it; the cat stared back with an expressionless face. With what seemed like a deliberate fuck you, it sat on its haunches, lifted a leg and began to clean its own arse. Grendle felt a flush of hysteria engulf him. It was quickly followed by despair. The knife dropped to the floor as his fingers drained of blood. Grendle's body felt like ice, like he was already a corpse. Was he dead and this was hell, stuck in this room forever with an insolent cat. Was this the punishment for the sin of suicide? Grendle felt his neck with his lifeless fingers but there was no wound, no blood. The cat stopped what it was doing for a second and stared at him, and then it carried on with its ablutions.

'Am I dead?' Grendle wondered aloud as he sank to his knees. He sat back against the bench and glared at the cat. He half expected it to answer him. Instead the answer came from a shadow in the alcove next to the door, 'Obviously, you are not dead, you fool. I thought you would be more intelligent than this. I'm disappointed'


	3. Chapter 3

The Hound had decided with a dark scowl that Volantis was as good a city to head towards as any. He was a solid shape between Sansa and Grendle's swirl of panic. The three of them had been packing and getting ready to leave, the worst thoughts stretching their hands into trembling fingers, each trying to hide it from the other. They did not have time to really decide on a destination. If truth be told, none of them had any real knowledge of the Free Cities. They had spoken briefly to the Elder Brother, who had been rubbing his shaved head in anxiety. The monk knew the war was coming to the island and the family should leave in haste. He had pressed a history of the Free Cities into Grendle's hand, muttered instructions to Sandor and Sansa, mentioned a friend of his in Volantis who might help them. His last piece of advice: 'Stay a priest Sandor, keep your face covered, the Hound will find it hard to move around wherever you go. Sansa don't underestimate your value to your enemies. Grendle, keep them safe.' The boy was baffled, how in seven hells could he protect them? All Grendle cared about was getting away before Brother Narbert discovered that his spare robe had a grass snake hidden in it.

Sansa had turned to the Elder Brother, 'Will you send a raven to Castle Black? Somehow get a message to my brother and tell him where we are headed.'

The Elder Brother sighed, 'That would be foolish, if the message is intercepted… you know the enemy might already hold the castle?'

'Do as she asks,' growled the Hound, 'I have buried all the dead you wanted me to, I have been penitent. Do this for her.'

The Elder Brother smiled, his eyes creasing into many furrows. For second his humour reappeared and the worries that had fallen on him from the visitation from the mainland vanished. 'I don't believe you have embraced the Seven, Brother Digger.'

'No,' Sandor paused, trying to say it right, 'but I have had a lot of time to think and I am grateful that, my Brother.'

The Elder Brother laughed, 'It was always going to be a difficult job, persuading the Hound to embrace religion.'

Sandor reached for Sansa's hand, 'The Old Gods revealed themselves to me, since I met Sansa.'

The Elder Brother smiled. He placed a hand on each of their heads, 'My friends,' he said, 'Go in peace into this wild world. May your old Gods protect you; I know the Seven will watch over you. Or Grendle will.'

Grendle grinned, his teeth showing white in the gloom, 'I can't wait to be able to talk again, I've found all this silence a damn nuisance.'

Sansa gasped, 'Grendle!'

'Sorry, Elder Brother, I just meant I like talking. A lot.'

'I understand, young man, I am sure you will find lots to talk about as you travel across the Narrow sea and beyond. Now go, catch the tide.'

As they turned and left the crypt the Elder Brother called after them, 'I will send a raven to Brother Aemon, he will understand the message that I'll hide within my usual news of vegetable crops and discussions of the constellations.'

Sansa had smiled and whispered, 'Thank you. For everything.'

So they had left the Quiet Isle under the cover of darkness, Sansa clutching her newborn baby to her chest, wrapped in a brown shawl with her leather pack on her back. Sandor led Stranger onto the raft and Grendle soothed the nervous horse by stroking his neck. The wind was cold, blowing from the north. It whipped the water into little waves that rocked the raft causing the horse to stamp. The Hound leant his huge body against the horse, his face pushed into the warm fur. Sansa could hear him murmuring to Stranger, reassuring him that the water wouldn't beat them. Once they landed on the sandy shore the silent Brother who had accompanied them immediately turned the raft and headed back to the Quiet Isle.

'I guess that's the end of them then,' said Grendle, 'what a bunch of boring old…'

The Hound gave him a sharp slap across the ear, 'Quiet boy. Hold your rude tongue a little longer.'

Grendle nodded. He hefted his pack and feel into step obediently behind Stranger. Sansa sat on the horse's back holding the tiny infant. The Hound led the horse and they made their way towards the harbour. The ruined town was as bleak as the last time they had been there; desolate buildings and temporary shacks like hunched ravens on the quayside. There were two ramshackle ships moored out in the bay and sailors sat in the inn filling their empty stomachs with ale. The Hound sent Grendle to negotiate their fare. A Braavosi ship was leaving on the next tide. Grendle knocked down their price, spinning some tale tales of his valour and making the black-toothed Captain grin and smack him on the back. Their gold was good; he could make space for the horse for gold like this.

The Hound, shrouded in his priest robe limped onto the ship, leaning heavily on his stick. The sailors tied Stranger securely into the hold. Sansa was shown to a grubby cabin. It stank of old fish but the bed was soft and full of blankets. She settled into them gratefully, nursing her little son until they both fell asleep. The Hound watched over them until the sound of her breathing deepened. He tucked them in and went out onto the deck to look at the stars. The crew were all busily occupied as the time drew near to them setting sail. Sandor found Grendle playing dice with the cook and the cabin boy. He wanted to be angry with him for being so blasé about the danger they were in. These sailors were as likely to cut their throats and throw them into the narrow sea, rather than deliver them into some safe port. Yet the cook loved Grendle, after only knowing him for an hour, here he was filling up Grendle's bowl with fish stew and insisting he took bread and mead back to the cabin for Sansa.

'A good lad, aren't you, a good funny lad.' The cook laughed and his belly wobbled. He looked at the Hound, 'Where are you headed in the Free Cities?'

The Hound murmured something about spreading the word of the Seven Gods and the cook shook his head, 'The Lord of Light won't like that my friend. R'hllor might make your life difficult if you try to share any word about your Seven Gods.'

'Even so, it is our mission,' said Sandor.

Grendle rattled the dice in the bone cup, 'Look Kesh, we don't want to upset anyone, we are peaceful people doing the Seven's work.'

Kesh laughed so his jowls wobbled again, 'I thought you were the toughest fighter in Westeros fleeing your many vengeful enemies.'

Grendle grinned, 'Many things, Kesh, I am many things.' He rolled the dice and got a pair of ones. The cook and the cabin boy laughed and threw their coins towards Grendle.

Kesh heaved his massive frame out of his chair, 'I can feel the tide changing, I should get to your cabin and sleep for a while. Even you tough fighter. I'll send for you if a sea monster attacks.' He passed the Hound another bowl of stew and said, 'Just remember people fiercely defend the Lord of Light, a piece of free advice for you Priest with a fighter's body.'

The Hound growled softly and pressed a steel coin into Kesh's white hand, 'Nothing is free in this life.'

Kesh threw his fat neck back and guffawed again, 'Wise words. Sleep well.'

The Hound followed Grendle to the cabin, just before they entered the room he pulled the boy into an impromptu hug, 'Will you try and stay alive please? As my son I expect you to stay out of dangerous situations'

Grendle hugged him back for a few seconds before the urge to say something cheeky rose to the surface, 'You thought making me a Clegane was going to keep me safe old dog?' Quick as an eel he dodged the Hound's infuriated fist and fell through the cabin door.

'Stop bickering,' said Sansa sitting up in bed, 'and take your other son for a while.' The Hound reached forward and scooped Brandon into his arms.

Sansa smiled, 'Now Grendle, give me that food. I am starving.'

The boy did as he was told and then took Sansa's place in the bed. He felt the ship swaying on the tide and he fell into a contented sleep as they set off across the Narrow Sea.


	4. Chapter 4

The memories of travelling through the Free Cities would always be hazy in Grendle's mind. For one thing he had always been a little afraid of what might happen and fear changes what you are focusing on. Instead of scenery it was the expressions on each stranger's face, the weapons they carried, the intent behind their glares; was it dangerous? That had been Grendle's occupation as he travelled with his family. Look out for danger, scout ahead and find out any information that could be useful. He could be silent and secret; no-one saw him as a threat. They just saw a mouse haired, ragged looking boy travelling with an oversized priest and a young mother holding a baby in her arms. They certainly stood out as an odd group of people. Sansa couldn't pose as a boy anymore, not with Brandon screaming for her milk at the most inopportune moments. They had to just pretend to be accompanying the priest on his mission, a group of unfortunate pilgrims from Westeros. The fact that war was raging in the North made them less noticeable. Quite a few people had crossed the Narrow Sea to escape the brutality of the Lannister and Bolton armies that were beating and burning their way across the land. So their little group weren't the only people carrying all their belongings and looking for a new home in the Free Cities.

Most of the time, following Sandor's orders, Grendle slipped away and moved through the crowds like an inquisitive and clever rat. He was a shadow in the market places, always keeping one step ahead of any enemies. He would journey ahead to drink at an inn before Sansa arrived; check it wasn't full of rapists. Although, as the Hound said, you could never really tell what a man was like and they had to be always prepared for the worst that could happen in these strange new lands. So life for them all was one of anxiety and living on their gut instincts. If Grendle didn't like the look of a place he would go back to Sandor and they would carry on to the next. No wonder Grendle's memories merged into each other like clouds scurrying across a grey sky.

Although they had crossed the Narrow Sea aboard a Braavosi ship they didn't go to that city. The twelve year old boy had been disappointed that the Braavosi crew were not heading home. He had been longing to see the fabled city of Braavos. Grendle wanted to climb the statue that straddled the harbour. He told the Hound he intended to climb right to the head of the statue and piss off the top. The Hound had shook his head and requested that Grendle didn't ask for him when he ended up in the deepest darkest jail the Braavosi could throw him into. So alas, the ship headed for Pentos to collect some reams of silk and Grendle did not get to see Braavos or urinate off the top of the statue. Years later, Grendle would end up there, aged eighteen, drifting and searching. Alone. He had stared at the famous statue and tried to remember his youthful sense of fun and adventure. Tried to remember how he had made Sansa laugh with his tall tales on the ship about what he would do in all the cities of Essos. Sansa had told him all she could recall of her youthful lessons and Grendle had lapped up every fact and each interesting thing lighted his imagination. Aged eighteen he had just stared dispassionately. The statue disappointed him. It was only a man made of stone and Grendle knew everything there was to know about being a man made of granite. What was he? Nothing but a stone man with a heart that had stopped beating the day his family vanished.

The sailors had laughingly given them advice when they had left the ship in Pentos. Told them to avoid the temple or the Lord of Light would burn them all to a crisp. The cook, Kesh had given Grendle a coin and told him to keep it for luck, in case it came in useful one day. Grendle still carried it in his pocket. A silver Braavosi coin, worn thin from Grendle rubbing it between his thumb and index finger when he was sat thinking about life.

Pentos had been fascinating to all of them. Full of sights and sounds so strange to the Westeros folk. Sansa and Grendle, full of Northern blood were especially amazed by the warm winds and palms in the street. The sweet smell of cinnamon in the air, the folded dresses that hung from the ladies shoulders; it had been intoxicating in a way but there was a sense of unknown menace in the faces of the men. Not hatred exactly, but a feeling that they weren't exactly welcome in Pentos. The tall, tiled buildings seemed to push down on them, made them seek out an inn as quickly as possible so they could get off the streets. Sandor had fallen asleep with Brandon in his arms. Grendle still remembered what Sansa had said to him as they sat quietly on the rug.

She had said, I am afraid. And he had nothing funny to say in reply, so he had said nothing.

Years later when he would try to recall travelling as a boy, it would be an emotion he remembered, a feeling sharp and distinct; fear.

However once he was alone, the fear had been tinged with remembered excitement, the love of adventuring. Travelling with Sansa and Sandor had always been fun. They laughed often and Grendle just loved being with them. Even travelling into the unknown was a luxury, if it meant he could be with his own family.

A twelve year old boy takes note of the strangest things. Not the details of the inns they stayed in or the exact route they took but colours mainly lingered in his mind. The shade of a woman's stocking as she lifted her skirts to step over a drunk man in the main street of Pentos, in front of the oppressively tall manse that cast a shadow across the road. But the woman had stepped into a blaze of light that cut through a space in the crenulated wall. Yellow. The stocking was yellow like sunshine.

He remembered the red robes of intense looking priests who eyed their motley crew with disgust and suspicion, Sandor's dark brown robe marking him as a follower of the Seven Gods. In a way it marked them all out as foreigners and they discussed leaving the robe disguise behind; Sandor was sick of it anyway, having to stoop to disguise his height. Yet they minded the words of the Elder Brother. Sandor's scars were impossible to disguise or explain with the hood. So the disguise would stay until they got to Myr.

Grendle remembered the colour of a girl's eyes, the colour of the sea on a hot day, bright against her ebony skin. She had reached out to touch the baby in Grendle's arms when he had been resting under the shade of palm tree. Brandon had been sleeping and Sansa and Sandor were trying to buy a cart to start their journey south, away from Pentos. The girl had smiled at Grendle, her teeth bright white. She was probably the same age as Grendle and she spoke to him in her own language, which he couldn't understand. But he remembered her sea green eyes and he liked to think she had said, your baby brother looks just like you.


	5. Chapter 5

_The voice said: 'Obviously, you are not dead, you fool. I thought you would be more intelligent than this. I'm disappointed.'_

Was it fear he felt now? Grendle squinted and got to his feet, all his lust for death evaporated. He stepped back. No. He wasn't afraid. He was curious.

'Who in seven hells are you?'

Out of the shadow stepped a slim figure. A woman with long blonde hair that curled like grass snakes to her waist. The straw coloured tresses looked bright against her tanned skin. She was dressed in a flimsy silk robe that matched the shade of her pale blue eyes. She was staring at him insolently, glaring into his eyes as she stepped forward and stood before him.

'The chair,' she said.

'What?'

'Pass me the chair so I can sit down in your wretched little room.'

Grendle hurriedly picked the chair up and put it down in front of the woman. She sighed and pointed to a different spot in the room, nearer to the door. 'Put it there.'

Grendle felt a flush of annoyance but he did as he was ordered and moved the chair closer to the door. At last the arrogant woman sat down and the cat jumped up and settled onto her lap, purring loudly. The woman stroked it and continued to stare at Grendle who awkwardly backed off to sit down on the sleeping bench. He reached for his fallen flask of rum and swilled the contents down his throat. It burned but it felt good. It felt real in this unreal moment.

'So?' He folded his arms.

'You want my name? What is so important about a name? Call me anything you like.'

'Mad woman.'

'Now, that is just rude and you don't want to know what I do to rude men.'

'Right now, I really don't care.' Grendle unfolded his arms and shook the flask, wishing it would refill with rum but it was still empty.

'Call me Sibel. That will do for now.'

Grendle just shook his head slightly, 'Fine, I'll call you Sibel but I don't like it. I like honesty.'

Sibel grinned at him, 'Don't worry about truth. Truth is what we decide it is.'

'Just tell me who you are.' Grendle growled; he almost felt his hackles rising.

'More importantly,' Sibel leant forward and the cat hissed in displeasure as it was squashed into her lap, 'why were you trying to kill yourself?'

Grendle threw back his weary head and laughed, 'As if I would tell you, a stranger, any of my reasons.'

'Will you try again?'

He rubbed his temple and sighed, 'Who knows how I will feel tomorrow or next month.'

The cat jumped down and settled itself on the bed next to Grendle. He almost stroked it but he didn't like the look of the beast. It was unnatural, almost human. Instead he smoothed out his little map which had been scrunched up in his fist. He laid it across his thigh so he could look at it then Grendle said, 'Look lady, I won't do it again; it was a moment of weakness.'

Sibel laughed softly, but it wasn't a comforting sound, 'No you won't be doing that again, because I need you.'

'You better explain yourself and fast.'

'I mean that I need you to help me locate someone my client is looking for.'

'Who?' Grendle couldn't help leaning forward, 'Tell me.'

Sibel laughed again, 'Sandor Clegane.'

Grendle didn't like her attitude, her laugh was condescending and he didn't trust her at all, yet he couldn't help the surge of hope that filled him hearing a stranger mention Sandor. As if it was a certainty he would be found. Grendle wanted to shake this strange woman until everything she knew tumbled out of her. The urge vanished as he controlled his emotions. Patience.

'I need to eat,' Grendle put his map into his pocket and got up, 'come with me and we can talk more.'

Sibel nodded and gracefully rose from the chair. 'Lead the way Grendle.'

He bristled slightly at her using his given name, how the hells did she know his name? He wasn't using that name in Quarth, each city he had travelled through he put on a new persona like a change of clothes. Grendle tried to place her accent and looks but she was a mystery to him. He gestured to the door and she walked out ahead of him. He noticed how the cat slinkily followed her as they headed through the dark passageways and into the bright light of the city. That was bloody odd. Cats don't follow people for Gods sake. Grendle felt like screaming to the Stranger to release him from this strange reality but there was a minute hope this encounter might lead a step closer to his family. He gently touched the woman's elbow to guide her towards a place he been to before. Grendle knew the lamb was cooked rare and tender, the apricots covered in honey. Perhaps the delicate seasonings would loosen this damn woman's tongue and she would start telling him the truth. He glanced at her sharp cheekbones and proud shoulders; then again, perhaps not.


End file.
